


An Offered Heart

by Nearfisc



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Altar Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, God!Percival, Gramander, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Misunderstandings, Newt is very willing but doesn't realize what he's offering, Percival isn't a bad guy he's just dense sometimes, Sacrifice!Newt, god AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 02:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12122952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nearfisc/pseuds/Nearfisc
Summary: “The heart,” the priest had said, after pouring over half-torn manuscripts detailing the last time a sacrifice had been required. “The God of Graves will come to harvest an offered heart.”---Newt is willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of the village that saved him.Percival wonders why his potential bride-to-be is acting so...odd.





	1. The Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mamin_the_troll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamin_the_troll/gifts).



> Completely a result of seeing this post by Mamin-The-Troll on tumblr: http://mamin-the-troll.tumblr.com/post/163799852783/hello-i-have-been-talking-with-axileana-and  
> Along with the beautiful artwork, Mamin wrote: "God AU. Newt is chosen as a sacrifice for god (aka Percival Graves). He’s bond and left on an altar all night. He thought that the god is going to take his heart and eat it. At last Percival did come but take his heart in other way ;))"
> 
> -and here we find ourselves.

Newt struggled with the ropes at his wrists. He didn’t know why they had to be so tight. He’d told them he wouldn’t run; they hadn’t believed him. It was understandable that they would want to be sure he wasn’t tempted to change his mind- after all, where else would they find a willing sacrifice? Yet still, the fiber bit his skin and his muscles had begun to go sore, and despite the heavy dead resignation that periodically swept through his mind, Newt wished he could spend his last hours alive in relative comfort.

The section of the altar he had been laid back on was curved, at a gentle slope, seemingly for a person to recline on. He supposed that at one point, distant in the past, when the temples had been upkept and sacrifice was common, there might have been a cushioning of woven grass or softer rope. Perhaps the gods preferred to draw first blood instead of having their property cut and bruised by the rough stone- which was unfortunately what Newt soon foresaw happening, unable as he was to twist into any more comfortable position.

But it wasn’t painful. It wasn’t. Nothing really was anymore- not in any way that mattered- not since the sickness had come, and taken away all he held dear. This new village had accepted him, alone, had put up with his strange affinity for the wild beasts that came down at night from the mountains. They had been kind enough, allowing him to live on the outskirts despite the suspicions. They fed him, they clothed him, they fetched him to attend the Moon Feast each month, even if Newt halted at the fringes and made poor company. They did not mistreat him for his many faults.

This was the least he could do.

Newt thought what a blessing it would be that his death would at least be with far less suffering than he’d previously imagined.

“The heart,” the priest had said, after pouring over half-torn manuscripts detailing the last time a sacrifice had been required. “The God of Graves will come to harvest an offered heart.”

So that was the price of continued rains and full harvests, for this peaceful valley village to survive while others fell to plague or drought.

He did not blame them. At least this way his life could mean something. At least now, someone else would be saved- others wouldn’t have to suffer as he had suffered, to know the pain of a sibling, a child, a friend, gone forever. They could live their lives as they had before he’d arrived, as if nothing changed at all.

These were the thoughts that rocked gently in his mind, comforting him, as the light seeping in from the dusk outside gradually faded.

When light returned, it was sudden- glaringly bright, the roar of fire coming to life in metal braziers that encircled the room.

“Is this what they call an offering?”

The voice echoed through the chamber as Newt struggled to adjust his eyes. As the man strode forward, the displeased expression marring his handsome face was enough to tell Newt that he had already done something wrong.

“I don’t have time to waste on captives.”

“I- I’m yours to do with as you wish.” Newt forced the words from his mouth, desperate to offer himself properly. There had been more to the sacrifice, he knew, but the pages had been indiscernible from damage, with none alive now who had been so for the last human sacrifice. Ten years ago it had been the Offering of Water, apparently; left in the temple barrel by barrel, all gone within a night. Five years ago it was the Offering of Berries.

How unfortunate that now was the Offering of Flesh.

“And tell me,” the god ordered, “are you even old enough to understand what it is you offer?”

“Four Summers”, Newt replied hesitantly, trying to remember. “I know I don’t look it, but I received my rites four Summers ago-“ _in a village, surrounded by his loved ones, that no longer existed._

“And-“ he continued, remembering who he was in the presence of, “You- you’re the God of Graves. I know what I offer.”

“Percival, if you don’t mind.” The god answered, his expression turning to bemusement as his eyes more carefully examined the mortal who was presented so openly on his altar. _Certainly pretty enough, if he’s truly willing,_ he thought. “Tell me, then, what is the name of my eager offering?”

“Newt.” The bound boy answered quietly. “I- I didn’t know gods had such names.”

“Well it would get tedious, not having common names, wouldn’t it?” Percival spoke casually as he approached. In the light of the torches Newt could see that they were dressed similarly, only Percival’s garb was a flexible and thin leather and the shadows played off muscles that were dusted with dark hair in comparison to Newt’s own soft, smaller frame.

“Newt.” He sighed, now leaning against the side of the altar as though he owned it- which Newt supposed was right. “Why are you here?”

Newt struggled to find the words. This was not how he had expected his last night alive to go- arguing with his executioner that he was a worthy sacrifice. But he had to be. It had to be him, only him; how could he face the village, how could he even live among them, if he came back to them with word that someone else, someone better had to be sent instead?

No.

“I offer myself to the God of Graves. I am here of my own will. My arrangements have been tended; I am of sound mind; I am under no threat.” He took a steadying breath before continuing. “I know I’m probably not what you were hoping for, but please…I- I’m worthy.”

Newt stopped talking before he made another mistake. His eyes were also seeking, searching- there was no knife tucked into Percival’s waistbelt, no ceremonial dagger on his person. Perhaps he would fetch one only when he was convinced. Newt had to work harder.

“Then why,” Percival mused, touching the rope at Newt’s wrists, “have you been bound like this, O Willing One?”

Newt’s eyes darted back up, afraid. Afraid he wasn’t convincing. Afraid the god would reject him.

“I asked,” he lied. “So it- it would be easier for me.”

“Easier?” The god’s brow arched, incredulous.

As Newt thought about it, the explanation did make sense. What normal person would be able to hold still with a blade plunging toward their heart? The idea sent a pang of fear through his chest, but he forced it down with the rest.

“Yes- please-“ Newt insisted, “I asked for my hands to be tied, I’m willing, I swear. Please, accept me.”

“Fine, fine, I believe you” Percival laughed, fingers trailing down the underside of Newt’s arms. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

Newt nodded, relieved. _I can do at least this,_ he thought. _I can do at least this._

“Shall we begin, then?” The fingers reached his collar; his neck; his chest; and Newt nodded again, closing his eyes, awaiting the pain that would come before what he hoped would be a quick, serene departure to the next world. The judges of the afterlife were said to look favorably on those who served the gods. He hoped that was true.

Percival’s hands explored his skin. They halted over his sternum, steadying, pressing lightly above his pulse.

 _There,_ Newt thought, with a strange mixture of acceptance and giddy fear, _there is where the steel will bite._

Instead of a bite, he felt a soft, warm tongue.

Newt held still beneath his bindings. His heart sunk as he realized Percival might not use tools at all, and might break into his flesh in the way of beasts: violently, with tooth and claw. It made sense, though- a god that liked to eat hearts, a being so much closer to nature.

The hope he had of a quick end dissipated as the tongue began to rove, matching pace with the calloused fingers now wandering gently down his ribs. Percival was crowded over him now, kneeling by the altar so that he had an easy angle on the expanse of smooth skin exposed before him. An observer might have difficulty discerning which man was the god and which man was being worshipped.

When that wandering tongue found a pert, pink nipple, Percival felt Newt flinch beneath him.

“Sorry,” Percival spoke against Newt’s flesh, eyes half-closed as he pulled off, “It’s- been a while, and there’s not much time between moonset and sunrise. I can slow down-“

“No,” Newt answered quickly, almost pleadingly. To draw out a death sentence meant only to suffer longer. “Please, continue.” He wondered what would be worse- to die slowly, or to have the sun rise and end the sacrifice prematurely, to leave his pain all for naught.

Percival chuckled lazily, dipping his head back to his task. “As you wish.” _Perhaps,_ he wondered, _I’ll take a wife this cycle after all._

Percival’s hands and tongue navigated across the soft planes of Newt’s chest with comfortable ease, but the ghost of hurry lurked behind the actions. Newt’s thoughts came as a random current. Detached- curious, in a way that he always was, underneath the heavy realization that he had succeeded in sealing his own fate. A few words was all it took.

Yet still.

He wondered.

He wondered if he tasted good. The god certainly seemed to be enjoying himself, laving his tongue across Newt’s skin as though seeking the best place to break it. He wondered if he would taste as good inside. When predators ate, it was the soft, warm inner morsels that seemed most coveted and quickly devoured. Hearts and lungs were prized before bone and sinew.

A vision flashed through his imagination of himself, peaceful in reclined death; his bleeding, still heart held in Percival’s hand above his open sternum.

Would the rest of his body lay in the temple, uneaten, left for the insects; forgotten, untended, unburied?

How terrible.

Newt was brought back to himself when that jolt went through him as his nipples again became the center of attention, and he wondered about that, too, and why his body reacted that way- but he did not wonder long, once he felt Percival’s hot breath and soft tongue move up to taste his collar, his neck, his pulse, and for a moment he desperately hoped that the god intended to kill him quickly by tearing out his throat.

He’d like that better, he thought, than having to watch himself be carved open. Another flash of fear went through him at the realization that the pain might still be comparable, his pulse picking up in its wake.

“Ah- excited, are we?” Percival asked, and before Newt could answer the god was pressing his ear against Newt’s chest as though seeking to hear the accelerated stutter of his heart. “Oh, that’s lovely- just beautiful.” He sighed, stilling his movements for a moment to appreciate it. “I haven’t heard that sound for a long time.”

The comment did nothing to calm Newt’s fears. It was like watching someone sit down to a meal after a long day’s work- and that’s all he was, he supposed.

But then there was a thought.

He remembered himself, starving across empty hills; starving for food, for company, for sweet water. He remembered the sheer relief of finding a clean creek. He remembered his trembling hands holding a hot earthen bowl full of broth, how his body and mind cried out in thankfulness at the nourishment when the villagers took him in and fed him.

That was probably how Percival felt now. How long had it been since he’d eaten? What must it be like, to be the Gravetender, the God of Graves, the keeper of dead places and silent halls? Was he always hungry? Did he have friends, or family, or had those all died before him, while he lived on and ate the hearts of those he did meet?

Newt’s eyes gazed down in the silence at the dark-haired god leaning against him. He seemed so real, so human, so incredibly content to explore his offering. That was nice, at least. He was kind enough to seem appreciative of what Newt had offered up, and Newt felt the strangest mixture of pity for the god. _Every beast must eat, after all._ He remembered what Percival said- how long had it been since he’d felt the touch of another at all? What a lonely existence it must be.

In that moment, Newt decided to forgive. The villagers, for their fear; the god, for his hunger; himself, for his uselessness. It was all so understandable. It was all so… _human_.

His body relaxed. A wave of serenity swept over him, and once again he fell into a dullness that permeated his mind but was somehow so much more peaceful than before. He was… alright.

It was a fine time to decide, because a moment later Percival had lifted his head as though remembering the task at hand.

“Newt,” Percival asked, “are you always tied, when you’re with someone?”

Newt didn’t know what he was being asked. Did the God of Graves think he was a slave, a mistreated servant kept under cruelty? He shook his head.

“N-no.” This was the first time. Why else would he be tied?

“Do you mind if I undo them, just for now? There’s time enough for games later.”

“Yes, I mean- of course,” Newt responded apologetically, confused. How long did the god intend to draw out his meal? “I’m sorry, I- I might move.”

“Well I should hope so,” Percival replied, sitting up to reach onto the surface of the altar. “Just because this is a ritual doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.” As he spoke, suddenly, he pulled back his hand and clutched within it was the handle of a short, gleaming dagger. It had not been there before. But this was, of course, the house of the god before him- and the flames had leapt to life without a single spark first- and _of course_ , Newt realized, a god in his own home at his own ritual sacrifice will be able to summon whatever he wants from his own altar.

That blade reached up toward the ropes and Percival didn’t see the expression of crestfallen fear that came over Newt’s face. Newt was again imagining Percival taking his time, breaking into his chest to reach that still-beating heart. Why did he want Newt’s hands free? So he could see him struggle, try to defend himself? Newt had decided to forgive the god for needing his nourishment, but the idea of Percival relishing in the act-

“Hells, you’re bleeding!”

Percival’s voice cut through his thoughts as the ropes went slack and fell away. His hands lowered Newt’s arms and the mortal winced, suddenly noticing the soreness that had seeped into his shoulderblades as the tension was released. Percival set the blade aside on the altar, kneeling again, holding Newt’s hands between them both to inspect them. Newt followed his gaze and saw that he was right; the rough fiber of the rope had left raw impressions that now wept a small amount of blood. He wondered why he hadn’t felt it- but there had been plenty of distraction. He stared blankly, unmoving.

“Does it hurt?” The god asked, thumb lightly brushing the bruised skin.

“A bit.” Newt muttered. He hoped it didn’t make a difference- didn’t make him unsuitable as a sacrifice.

Percival frowned, hesitating, and Newt didn’t know what to say to make it better, but before he could think of anything Percival had reached up to the altar again. _The dagger-_

-yet it wasn’t. Instead, Percival held a small, stone bowl filled with a thick, black substance.

“Ash balm,” he explained, “my own recipe. Why were you tied so tight, hm?” Percival chided as he worked, carefully smearing the salve over the neat lines encircling Newt’s wrists. “Honestly, so _fragile_ you mortals are. Know your limits, for your own sake- there we are, turn your hand, that’s right-“

Newt watched in confusion. The salve was neither cold nor painful, and he felt the sting retreat as it was rubbed onto the mild abrasions. He felt…kindness. The god worked in silence, light concern showing in his features, and the minutes passed to the soft sounds of the flames on the walls around them. How surreal that experience was, for the mortal who could not remember the last time someone had touched him so gently.

“Now Newt,” Percival began, once he was satisfied that he had covered all that needed tending, “I know this is all very new to you, and I’m sorry you were uncomfortable, but we do need to begin soon.” His eyes now looked up and Newt shifted under his gaze, unsure how to respond. The god could do whatever he liked.

“Do your wrists feel better now?”

Newt nodded. “They- yes.”

“Can we try this without you being tied? I can hold you myself if you need it.”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Newt repeated a third time, and the finality of the word felt strangely like a weight from his shoulders when Percival smiled in approval.


	2. Willing One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please,” Newt pleaded, ashamed, tears forming in his eyes as he cast them downward, “Please, just- just kill me and be done with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is now chapter 2/3 instead of 2/2)

At Newt’s reassurance, Percival had a moment to be thankful.

It was thrilling, to meet someone new; someone not bound for the Underworld or groveling at his feet for something he could not give. This one- Newt, such a humble name- was still so vivid, the sun practically clinging to his warm skin. Most mortals shied away from the prospect of Death entirely, wanted nothing to do with it, and Percival couldn’t blame them. They had short enough time on the rich earth, why should they take a chance for the sake of a strange god who had no grand gestures or choice prizes for feats of bravery?

The God of Wheat would show herself to the harvesters, dancing in the glowing sunset and granting blessings to mortals who spent the season working hard to bring forth the fruits of their labor. The God of Wine was bold and bawdy, uncaring for subtlety, weaving his way through festivals and showing himself freely to revelers who properly demonstrated a love for his creation.

What did the God of Graves have?

There were times when Percival was invited to gatherings of mortals as well; enough souls in one place yearning for his presence- but when he arrived, he was somehow made to feel like an intruder anyway. The gifts he brought were subtle. A hand on the shoulder in times of mourning; heavy mists to soften the earth for a burial; the attention of carrion eaters, those night-scavengers, to remove remains left in the open; potions to take away those appetites that drove men, the hunger or thirst or lust, so survivors might not feel the sting of life quite so soon after loss.

They were no dazzling baubles or short-sighted vanity gifts. These were works which Percival knew for a fact to be helpful. Favors that went largely unappreciated, ignored, detested. They shrugged away his offered hand. They lamented his rains. They chased away his attendants.

Yet here was this mortal, willing to give up his life in the Sun, to surrender his remaining years and give a stranger a chance, with no assurances of happiness or reward. Percival only hoped he could be good enough company, hoped he could somehow succeed in not making Newt regret his choice.

“Thank you, Newt.” Percival spoke, standing and gesturing for the mortal to follow. “Now if you could kindly stand up for a moment while- _oh_ -“

The gesture of his hand had done more than just indicate. Newt’s body rose from the stone, lifted by an invisible force, and the surprised noise he made would have been amusing if his eyes hadn’t gone wide with the shock of someone who had never seen magic work quite so blatantly.

“Sorry, sorry, a moment, little one, just a moment, I’ll set you down-“ Percival’s hands worked in unison, now that he knew his magic was reaching its zenith, and he wasted no time in his intentions. He conjured the thick cushions to the reclined portion of the altar and gently set the mortal back on the plush material, politely embarrassed.

“It is much later than I anticipated.” He said by way of apology. “If I have that much power here already, our time is running shallow.”

“You- you can-“

“My interaction with this world is usually…hindered.” Percival explained, glad to see the boy was taking the experience better than others might. “This is one of those opportunities when our worlds briefly meet more in full. That’s why I’m here, that’s why I can accept this offering personally.”

Newt didn’t really understand, but he didn’t need to. It was not his place to know the ways of gods.

“Now I don’t mean to be rude, but this window _is_ quite short, and I do get so easily distracted through conversation.” The god continued. “From here on, I’d like to focus on the ritual- do you understand?”

Newt nodded. He tried to make it seem enthusiastic. The thrill of being touched by magic- some people would happily die after such a gift, so he could, too. It was nice of the god, to give him the cushions against the rough stone, to take the time to explain things to someone who would be dead soon.

Yet still. He had to know.

“Will it be quick?” He breathed, hoping that wasn’t a rude thing to ask.

“Quicker than I’d like, by far, but don’t worry about that.”

Just as Newt was trying to work out whether that was better or worse, his thoughts were cut short- Percival climbed upon the altar easily, nonchalantly, placing a knee on either side of Newt’s hips, padded by those soft cushions.

Percival stared down at his sacrifice, and Newt silenced under the firm weight of his God and the heavy knowledge that this was the last thing he would experience. His thoughts went quiet. There was only the feeling of skin and cloth, only the sound of breath and flames. Loose strands of black hair fell forward to obscure Percival’s eyes and, unthinking, Newt reached with his free hand now to stroke them gently back out of the way. He was reminded of calming a beast.

It would stand to reason that the God of Graves, without a heart, would be hungry for them- all beasts must eat, after all, and he felt that strange wave of pity and forgiveness once again.

“Thank you, Newt,” Percival breathed. “Just relax."

Percival’s palms touched him first, cupped on either side of his jaw. Those dark eyes roamed his features, then down, down, followed by one hand as it trailed across his bared neck, his collar, his shoulder, brushing past his arm, his ribs, his stomach. This time Newt was sure those fingers would be the end of him, was sure the god would use his otherworldly strength to simply gut him with his bare hands.

He closed his eyes, and felt at strange peace.

When strong fingers dipped so confidently under the waist of his garment and wrapped around his cock, Newt couldn’t help the shout of surprise that accompanied his shocked jerk away from the sensation.  His eyes flew open and his hands raised instinctively to push against Percival’s chest.

“What’s wrong? You’re not hard at all-“ Percival seemed genuinely confused, trying not to sound accusatory. The hands pushing him away were hardly strong enough to move his form, but the intent was blatant. Percival leaned back, fingers spread open in a gesture of harmlessness, confusion obvious on his features.

“I didn’t- you-“ Newt struggled with his words, he couldn’t help his reaction.

Another memory flashed through his mind, of the handsome boy on the docks, of a Summer spent kissing in the mottled light of draped nets and torn sailcloth; of nervous smiles and furtive touches, the inexperience of youth, and the bittersweet parting when the tides carried the boats on before Winter set in.

A memory of how different it felt the next Summer when instead of familiar, gentle hands the boats had brought strange traders with loud voices and predatory stares. Newt had managed to escape them on the last night he spent searching on the docks, but not before he’d learned what those rough, lust-motivated hands had wanted from him.

Now the conflicting emotions were too much. Newt understood, suddenly, what Percival’s touches had meant, why his hands and tongue had been worked over his skin, what was desired of him. How cruel, to expect someone to do- to do _that_ \- before dying. It was enough that he was giving up his life, wasn’t it? The gods were just like mortals, then, to take such advantage of those in positions of no power.

“Do you not like men? It didn’t surprise you that I was male.” Percival was at a loss. He’d never heard of someone acting so odd about an Offering of Flesh. There were downsides, of course, he understood that many mortals would be nervous; but it was still a coveted role among the more devout. One night of casual pleasure could lead to a lifetime of delights in the Godly Realm if that was their choosing. Percival was accustomed to being used in this way and he did not resent them for it.

 _Perhaps,_ Percival thought bitterly, _he realized he couldn’t bare it, even for the prize._

“Please,” Newt pleaded, ashamed, tears forming in his eyes as he cast them downward, “Please, just- just kill me and be done with it.”

The silence that ensued was painful. Newt immediately realized the mistake he’d made. How ungrateful, he was. Who was he, to make such demands of a god? How dare he think that if there was anything the god wanted, he could not simply take it. Now he’d done it, he’d revealed what a rude, undeserving wretch he was to speak in such a disrespectful manner-

“ _Kill_ you?” Percival gasped incredulously. “Why on earth would I do that?”

 Newt glanced up, lost, tears slipping down his cheeks. “For- it’s- the sacrifice…”

“Oh, hells.” Percival’s hands lowered slowly and his words were spoken with the particular care of someone unravelling a riddle. “Newt. What is it exactly that you think you are here for?”

“You’re to eat my heart.” The confused whisper from the frightened mortal was barely audible.

Percival gave a bark of laughter, amused.

“Well, now! That’s certainly an interesting interpretation. No, you poor thing, not quite so literal.”

Percival’s expression sobered as another realization dawned on him.

“Then- the rope. You were made to come here, after all.” His eyes narrowed, lips taut. “How did they choose?” Percival demanded, disgusted at the idea. “Lottery? Money? Did you piss off some corrupt priest?”

“It’s not like that!” Newt shook his head, insistent. “They’re good people, they took me in, they-“

“-tied you to an altar to die, instead of risking their own skins.”

“Please,” Newt pleaded, leaning forward as though to reach out, “don’t be angry, don’t hurt them, please- I’m here, take what you need from me-“

“ _Hush._ ” The god spoke, more forcefully than he’d intended. Percival closed his eyes, calming his indignation with a deep breath. He could tell the mortal was frightened, and it wasn’t his intent to make the situation worse.

 _Of course,_ he thought bitterly. It would make sense for a mortal to be more willing to give up his life than spend it in his company. Had the true price been known, Newt undoubtedly wouldn’t have allowed himself to be brought to the temple.

At least if he _was_ to be killed, it would be a swift and straightforward ordeal. Better the short suffering than the long. Percival stood, turning from the altar as he worked through his disappointment and tried to think of what to do with this new information.

Percival muttered as he thought, his arms crossing in annoyance. “My fault, really, it’s such a pain to communicate clearly to the mortal realm- always vague signs and misinterpreted whispers on the grass…”

Newt stared from his seat, panic setting in. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand _any_ of it- all he knew was that he had failed, he had ruined everything, and now he’d been rejected properly. As his mind raced, Percival’s gaze settled on him once more and the god spoke as though talking to a displeasing servant.

“As soon as the Sun rises, go- travel across the rivers to the West if you can.” He sighed, stressed. “Take your family with you.”

“I have no family!” The words burst from Newt’s lips as he was struck, suddenly, by the stress and the memory. Realization coiled in his chest and his thoughts caught up a moment later.

Newt clenched his eyes closed, grief and frustration crumpling his features as he began to cry, the words choking in his throat. Anger swelled inside underneath, a rough fury that he’d been carrying with him for so long, and it burst forth with words he couldn’t hold back.

“You took them already! You struck them down like they were _nothing,_ you took everyone I cared about, and now you’re going to kill everyone who was kind to me again. How cruel can you be? How many souls do you need before you’re satisfied? Why can’t you just take me, too?!”

Percival stood, stunned, as the tears rolled down Newt’s cheeks and a stab of pity for the mortal shook him from his prior resentment. Now he saw someone in such a familiar state and he understood.

The god turned to the altar, reaching again for something summoned. Newt registered it in a distant sort of way, but he couldn’t bring himself to care what he was doing. It was only when Newt felt thick, soft cloth over his shoulders that he reacted.

“I don’t understand.” Newt whispered, eyes bleary and red as he pulled the cloak tight. “I don’t understand.”

Percival was silent as his arms wrapped around the mortal, and Newt pressed his eyes closed once more as he allowed himself to be pulled into a warm, strong embrace.

 

 


End file.
